


A Change In The Wind

by FayJay



Category: Firefly, Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: AU, Crossover, Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-16
Updated: 2009-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Captain Malcolm Reynolds, formerly of His Majesty's Navy, finds himself with a stowaway aboard the sailing vessel 'Serenity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change In The Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the cliche_bingo challenge, July 2009
> 
> (Yes, the ballad 'Tam Lin' is indeed being referenced here. It seemed singularly appropriate.)

“You're late,” says Badger, and there's a malicious note in his voice that Mal doesn't particularly care for. He heaves a sigh.

“We're not late,” Mal says, calmly, shifting just a little in his rickety chair so that the handle of his pistol glints in the firelight. Badger's eyes dart down to the gun for a moment, and he leans back and studies Mal with a grin.

“You're later than I'd like,” he amends.

“Can we skip the pissing contest and get to the part where he pays us?” mutters Jayne, glaring at the two large gentlemen looming behind Badger's fancy chair, and doing a little looming himself. Zoe doesn't say anything, but her expression speaks volumes.

“Master Cobb ain't the most diplomatic of men, but I find I can't argue with his sentiments,” says Mal, drumming blunt fingertips on the table's battered surface. “We did the job, Mister Brocklehurst. Now we get paid. Seems simple enough.”

Badger cocks his head. “You salvaged a shipment of silks and tea and silver plate and all manner of fancy things?”

“We did.” There's a platter of food on the table: fresh bread, half-melted butter, cheese, fresh fruit, cold meat. Badger has a lace-edged square of muslin tucked into the collar of his jacket and he is gnawing on a greasy chicken leg. He smacks his lips in exaggerated enjoyment, and pointedly does not offer Mal or his crewmen any share of the vittles.

“From the wreck of the 'Patience', that ran aground on a certain reef not a week ago?”

“That's correct.” Mal reaches across and helps himself to an orange, and enjoys the way that Badger scowls.

“Which was carrying a whole heap of fancy things _belonging to the Governor of this fair isle_.” Badger pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Fancy things he'd ordered all specific like, for his upcoming wedding. Very specific. Initials entwined in the designs on the china and worked into the silver candlesticks specific. Silks and satins and taffetas in the colours his fiance favours. Very – specific. Very _traceable_.”

“Hell's teeth,” mutters Zoe, darting a very eloquent look at her Captain.

“And, what's more, the dear Governor sent out his own little salvage expedition, seeing as how he loves his soon-to-be wife more than life itself.”

“Ah,” says Mal, his face falling slightly. He pauses in the middle of peeling his orange. Badger nods.

“Indeed. You've heard the story, perhaps? For word is that the Governor's brave little band of sailors bent on saving the silks and silver ran into a spot of trouble. Apparently they found – you'll never believe this, Commodore – they found a band of _pirates_ busy a-helping themselves to the Governor's goods!”

“I'm not a pirate,” says Mal Reynolds, quietly, his eyes fixed on the bright ribbon of rind that is curling down onto the table as he works on the orange.

“Possibly not the time for engaging in philosophy or semantics, Captain,” murmurs Zoe, helping herself to a slice of Mal's orange once he's finished peeling it.

“A band of pirates led by a great big tall chap wearing – can you credit the nerve of the fella – the stolen uniform of a Commodore in His Majesty's Imperial navy.” Badger stares pointedly at Mal's jacket, which has definitely seen better days but is still, quite unmistakably, part of his old uniform. Zoe sighs. “So you see, _Commodore_, it's going to be pretty hard shifting any of those goods that have been described so vividly by our beloved Governor. And if I were you, I wouldn't go walking around town in daylight dressed like a Wanted poster.”

“It's not Commodore,” says Mal, mildly, popping a chunk of orange into his mouth. “My friends call me Mal. _You_ can call me Captain Reynolds, though. Or Sir. Sir would do just fine.”

“See, _that's_ why I don't like you, Commodore,” says Badger, leaning forwards very suddenly, his expression almost a snarl. “That attitude of yours. You think you're better than the rest of us, don't you? With your fancy education, and your shiny buttons. But the truth is, you're a failure. The rest of us are doing the best we can, we're scrabbling up the ladder. You? You've fallen so far down already that your own mamma wouldn't recognise you. _Commodore._” He leans back again, and laces his fingers together on the table. “So – you screwed up, and the goods just became worthless.” And Badger names a sum which is a tiny fraction of the sum he had mentioned at this same table a few days earlier.

There is a pause.

“Right,” says Mal conversationally. “We could accept that offer. Or we could just keep the booty, shoot you in the face, and take this here plate of delicious fruit, along with whatever small change you happen to have in your pockets.”

One of Badger's hired thugs draws a dagger from his belt and starts sharpening its edge on a whetstone, whistling softly under his breath. The other, evidently of a rather less subtle turn of mind, draws his pistol and levels it at Mal. And suddenly Jayne's pistol is aimed, in turn, at the thug, and Zoe's is pointing right at Badger.

Badger tosses the remains of his chicken bone towards the fire, and picks up an apple. “Is this the part where you try to intimidated me?” he says, sounding bored.

“We did the job. So now we get paid.”

Badger shakes his head pityingly. “I've got news for you, Commodore. You're an independent contractor now, and nobody owes you a blessed thing. You don't work for the King, and you don't work for me – you work for yourself.” He glances at Zoe and Jayne, and then looks back at Mal. “So here's the situation: you have some goods for sale, but their value has just dropped like a stone. You don't like hearing that? Well, it's no skin off my nose, friend. Sell 'em some place else.” His gaze wanders back to Zoe, and his expression shifts. He licks the chicken grease off his lips, and his voice takes on a more speculative note. “ 'Course, you _do _ have other goods you might turn a profit on, if you've a mind to.”

Mal's eyes narrow, and his hand does finally drop to the butt of his pistol.

“Permission to shoot this treacherous, malodorous bilge rat in the face, Cap'n?” says Zoe, and her voice might have a very tiny shake to it, but her hand is steady as a rock and her eyes are cold as the Atlantic Ocean.

Mal draws a breath to answer, and for a moment it appears that the evening is going to take a turn for the messy, until Mistress Serra strolls up to the table with a bottle of rum and a smile sweet enough to break a man's heart at twenty paces.

“What's this I hear about you acquiring a collection of fine fabrics, Mr Brocklehurst?” she says, her voice low and sweet and far too refined for a place such as this, and she's smiling at Badger like there aren't cocked pistols and unsheathed blades on every side. “Why, that must be the best news I've heard in weeks! To be sure, my girls are in desperate need of new finery to help display their charms, and we've dyes a-plenty if the colours aren't to our liking! I should have known that we could count on a resourceful gentleman such as yourself to be thinking selflessly of our – needs.” She drops her eyes modestly, and then looks up at Badger through her lowered lashes, and he's mesmerised in spite of himself. Mal grits his teeth. Inara glances at him with an expression of disinterest, and then turns her attention back to Badger. “But you must forgive me – I see that you gentlemen are still conducting your business! How inappropriate of me to interupt! Please accept this little gift on the house, to make your transaction go a little smoother.” She leans closer to Badger, her dark curls swinging gently, and Badger's gaze slides inevitably down to her plunging décolletage. Mistress Serra never does go with customers herself, but she has a way of leading a man to hope that possibly, just possibly, she might be prepared to make an exception in his case. Badger swallows, and Captain Mal Reynolds crushes the remains of the orange in his hand into a pulp. Inara licks her lips very daintily, and smiles at Badger like he's _not_ some treacherous, malodorous bilge-rat at all. “And when you're finished, Mr Brocklehurst, you must come over and see me. Acquisition of such supplies is a positive act of charity, and I'm sure that my girls and I will be very, _very_ grateful.”

There is a rather stunned and deeply appreciative silence for several moments after Mistress Serra walks away, leaving the rum and a lingering scent of jasmine behind her. Zoe rolls her eyes.

Badger is the first one to speak, and he looks decidedly sheepish as he names a figure considerably more generous than the one before.

* * *

“I still think we should've shot him,” grumbles Jayne, as they make their way back to the dock. The sky overhead is pure blue and cloudless, but there's a sweet enough wind blowing to set flags a-fluttering. Mal has taken off his coat, at Zoe's polite – if forceful – recommendation, and has it rolled up under his arm. Zoe is carrying their payment. Badger's big, strapping minions are strolling along behind them to oversee the collection of the bales of fabric and the spices. The silver, however, and the fancy decorative china, Badger has refused steadfastly to touch. “Could've sold the cloth ourselves, cut out the middle man.”

“Shooting Badger would be bad for business,” says Zoe, but there's an edge to her voice that indicates that she regrets this rather a lot.

“It would,” agrees Mal, glancing sidelong at his Quartermaster for some clue to her feelings. “But one of these days that ain't going to be an adequate reason to hold back.” He bites his lip, studying her profile. She does not appear, on the surface, to be unduly upset. “We could always go back and shoot him in the head right now, if you like?” he offers, and although his tone is light, he is perfectly serious.

Zoe looks at him for a long, quiet moment, apparently turning this idea over in her mind. “Not today, Captain,” she says at last. “Although I do appreciate the offer. Wouldn't be precisely subtle, though, would it?”

They round the corner and the sea appears before them, shockingly bright. Mal smiles at the sight of his ship. “Subtlety has never really been one of my strong points,” he says, pulling his coat back on.

“Really Captain?” says Zoe, dryly. “I never would have noticed.”

* * * 

Mal's mood lightens considerably once he has the deck under his feet once more. Dry land is all well and good, but Mal likes to feel 'Serenity' swaying underneath him, and to know that he can be sailing off into the blue just as soon as he fancies. He doesn't much like being tied down to one place, or to one person.

“Cap'n? Cap'n?”

Mal turns away from the beckoning horizon to survey the ship's Carpenter, who is hopping from foot to foot with an expression of considerable distress. Mal glances over at Badger's men, who are in the process of lugging bales of silk and barrels of spices down the gangplank. “Is there a problem, Master Frye?”

“It's the First Mate, Cap'n,” says Master Frye, looking miserable. “He's gone and scarpered with the silver.”

Mal's mouth drops open slightly, and then he turns to Zoe, with a smile trembling on his lips. “D'you hear that? Tracey's run off with the silver.”

“Is that so?” Zoe looks down at her boots, unable to contain her amusement. “You owe me ten pieces of eight, Cap'n. I said he'd jump ship soon as we made harbour.”

“Was it ten? I though we said eight?”

“Ten, Cap'n,” says Zoe, mildly. “I have a head for figures.”

“That you do,” acknowledges Mal, sadly, and he rummages in his pocket for some coins.

Master Frye looks relieved that his bad news hasn't been the cause of any greater distress, and he draws a deep breath and makes a clean breast of it all. “And the plate, Cap'n – all those fancy plates with the daffodils and lilies on 'em, what were so pretty and distinctive like. He said he were unloadin' em for you, and I were busy talkin' to the passenger, but now he's gone, and the silver's gone, and the plate an' all, and I think he's done a runner, sir.”

“This is what you call looking after the ship in my absence, Master Frye?”

“Sorry, sir.” The Carpenter sounds thoroughly guilt stricken. Mal ruffles his hair, and the boy looks up with an expression of surprise.

“Oh, don't apologise, lad. Tracey's done us a favour, the damn fool. Boy never did have the sense to come in out of the rain. Turns out them goods weren't quite as saleable as we thought – reckon he's going to be regretting he ever laid eyes on 'em, before too very long. But that's his problem.” Mal's eyes narrow. “And he's just cost me ten pieces of eight, so I'm not much minded to feel sorry for the blighter. Now, let's go back to where you mentioned – did I hear you say something about a _passenger_, Master Frye?”

Master Frye has the grace to blush a little, but he sticks his chin out and squares his shoulders. “I know it's not customary, Cap'n, but he asked real nice, and he had a whole big pile of gold ready to pay us for our troubles. Said there'd be more at the end, if'n we took him where he wanted to go. An' I thought, since we didn't have no particular plans for our next voyage – 'cause we _didn't _ have no particular plans, did we, Cap'n?”

“We did not.”

“Well then, I thought you'd at least want to talk to him.”

“Did you now?”

Master Frye grins. “I did, sir.”

“He wouldn't happen to be an uncommonly decorative sort, now, would he, this potential passenger of ours?” asks Mal, without looking at the Ship's Carpenter.

“He's awful pretty,” Master Frye admits, without a whit of shame. “And you should see the clothes on him! And the nice manners! _And_ he's a doctor. And you know how much we could use a proper ship's doctor – 'cause Lord knows I've done my best, but I'm more use for sawing wood than sawing limbs, and I don't know the first thing about making up tonics and tinctures. But Mister Tam here is a _surgeon_, Cap'n. An honest-to-God surgeon, from Harley Street, in London, if you can believe it. And he says if we give him passage, he'll help out as ship's doctor, if the need should arise. Lend us his expertise, kind of thing.”

Mal glances over at his Quartermaster. “That _would_ be useful,” he says, and she nods. Mal's expression grows thoughtful. “Say, Zoe, how'd you like to become Acting First Mate of 'Serenity'?”

“Quartermaster's plenty work enough for me, Cap'n,” she says, shrugging. “I don't take real kindly to being at any man's beck and call.”

“You're at _my_ beck and call,” Mal says, sounding slightly wounded.

“You keep right on telling yourself that, Cap'n,” says Zoe in an equitable tone, and strolls off to find the sailing master.

* * * 

Their potential passenger is standing on the dock, looking nervously at Badger's flunkies, and casting languishing glances at the mountain of baggage that is, Mal assumes, his own.

“That's a fair bit of cargo you got there, friend,” says Mal, eyeing the trunks thoughtfully. “Master Frye tells me you're eager to buy passage with us on 'Serenity'. Is that right?”

“That's correct, Captain,” says the man, standing up very straight. He extends his hand. “Dr Tam, sir. Dr Simon Tam. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Mal's hand is still a little sticky from all the orange pulp, but he extends it anyway. “How do you do, Doctor?” he says. “So, where is it that you're hoping we might take you?”

An expression flickers over the doctor's face that looks a little too much like guilt for Mal Reynolds' liking. “Oh, well, is that so very important?” he asks, trying to smile. Mal blinks.

“Yes,” he says, his eyebrows lifting up towards his hairline. “It kind of sort of is. You do _have_ a destination in mind, I take it?”

Tam swallows. “It's – complicated,” he says.

“Complicated,” echoes Mal, looking up at the clouds as if imploring them for patience. “Well, that's nice. It was – interesting, meeting with you, Doctor. But I'm a busy man. Good luck with buying passage on one of the other ships docked hereabouts. Some of them ain't as fussy as I am.” He turns on his heel and is about to step onto the gangplank when Tam names a figure so outrageously beyond anything it might have occurred to Mal to demand, that he freezes in place.

There is a pause, and then Mal turns around and stares at the Doctor in utter bafflement.

“You could _buy_ a ship for that kind of money,” he says. “You aren't serious.”

“I'm perfectly serious,” says Tam, and he seems a little more self-possessed now that he's got Mal's attention. “Half of it now, half of it – afterwards.”

Even half of such a sum is still a treasure trove, and entirely ridiculous. “After what?”

Dr Tam licks his lips. “It's a personal matter,” he says, awkwardly, glancing over his shoulder in a way that tells Mal rather a lot. “Can we – please, can we discuss this in private?”

Mal shrugs. “Fine by me.” He steps back onto the gangplank. Tam doesn't follow him, though, and when Mal turns a quizzical gaze on him the doctor looks helplessly at the trunks.

“I need my things,” he says. “I really – I can't get on board without them. I need my things with me. Please.”

Mal stares at him, trying to weigh him up, and then sighs. “Fine. JAYNE!”

* * * 

“My Quartermaster, Mistress Zoe,” says Mal, a little later, when Tam's goods are stowed and they are safely ensconced in the Captain's cabin. The doctor looks quite startled, but after a beat he makes Zoe's lips twitch in amusement when he bows low to kiss her hand just as graciously as if she were a fine lady in a ballroom. “Ain't no call for that, Doctor,” says Mal, his brows coming together. “We don't stand on much ceremony aboard 'Serenity'.”

“No, really, Cap'n, I think we should introduce a little more ceremony,” says Zoe, gravely.

“You offering to start curtsying at me, woman? I'd love to see you curtsy. We could get you some skirts and all, for the full effect.” Mal nods to himself, a faraway look in his eyes. “And petticoats. Lots of petticoats.”

“Ah. Perhaps not.”

“That's what I thought.” Tam looks from one to the other with a slightly lost expression, and Mal returns to the matter at hand. Master Frye wasn't wrong, Mal reflects: the young doctor _is _ very decorative, as well as having ridiculously good manners. And being so wet behind the ears that he might as well have been keel-hauled and just lifted up dripping out of the sea. “Go on, then. Explain why your destination is so secret, Dr Tam.”

“It's not secret, precisely,” says the doctor, awkwardly. “It's just – um. Oh dear. This is going to be rather difficult to explain.”

“Try,” says Mal.

“I don't suppose – you wouldn't happen to believe in, ah, in magic, would you?” He doesn't sound terribly optimistic.

Mal and Zoe exchange glances. “Keep talking, son,” Mal says, and the doctor's eyes widen in sudden hope.

“I've had – I've had some very, ah, interesting experiences lately. I never paid any attention to old wives' tales before, always thought it was nonsense fit for children, but – well. Suffice it to say that I know better now. And, ah, where I'm going – well, I don't know precisely where it is, I'm afraid. But I've got this compass, and it points to where I need to be. So – I don't know the name of my destination, but I know how to get there.” He's trying to sound dignified, and he almost succeeds. Mostly, though, he sounds very young, to Mal's ears.

“You really a doctor, son?” Mal asks.

Tam blinks. “Yes,” he says, looking slightly startled. “Yes, I really am.” He stands a little straighter. “I have been a practicing physician for five years.” He watches Mal's eyes widen, and a look of incredulity spread over his face as he does the maths. “I was a _very_ precocious youngster,” he says, stiffly, and Mal believes him.

“I've got news for you, friend: you're _still_ a very precocious youngster.” He exchanges another glance with Zoe. “So – you going to show us this compass of yours?”

Tam looks astonished. “You believe me? But – my story is completely ridiculous,” he says. “_I_ wouldn't believe me!”

“We've had some – ah – uncanny experiences of our own, Doctor,” says Zoe kindly.

“Some time I might actually explain to you how come I'm no longer a Commodore in His Majesty's navy,” says Mal, with a tight smile. “Possibly. After a very large amount of rum. Let's just say that this is not the strangest thing we've heard or seen, Doctor, and leave it at that.”

“Oh.” Tam blinks. “Well – well, I suppose that's why it picked out this vessel, out of all of them,” he says.

“Come again?”

“The compass,” says Tam, fumbling in his pocket and withdrawing a little box. He opens it up and shows them a compass chiefly remarkable for the lack of any directions. “It points you to your heart's desire. Whatever you want most in all the world.” The needle is presently pointing out to sea, but it isn't pointing North.

“May I?” Mal asks, and after hesitating for an instant, Tam hands it over. The needle trembles, and then swings around to point firmly back towards town. Mal swallows, and shoves the compass back at the doctor. “Must be busted,” he says, glancing at Zoe and then away again.

“She likes you, you know,” says Zoe.

“I don't have any idea what you're talking about.”

“She likes you a lot.”

“Shut up.”

“I'm just saying. Seems to me that the feeling's mutual.”

“I don't go with whores,” snaps Mal, and there's a surprising amount of violence in his voice. The temperature in the room drops quite suddenly, and Tam becomes fascinated with the maps on the wall.

Zoe's eyes narrow. “And there I was thinking that you'd come to understand a little bit about how the world works, since your own fall from grace” she says softly. Mal scowls at her. “Not everybody has the choices in life that you've had, Captain. Commodore. We've all got to get by as best we can.”

“Zoe, I do _not_ wish to discuss this. Is that clear?”

“As crystal, Captain,” says Zoe. “If you don't have any further need of my services, I'll be off to check that the Boatswain managed to get all the supplies we need.” She's polite as can be, but there's still a wealth of disapproval expressed in her eyes and in the set of her shoulders.

“Then go,” snaps Mal, and she does.

“Um,” says Tam, fiddling with his compass and looking distinctly embarrassed. “So – you'll take me where I'm going, then?”

“Yes, fine, you've hired yourself a ship, Doctor. Congratulations.”

* * * 

When Mal hears the scream come from Tam's cabin the next day, his first thought is of Master Frye. The Ship's Carpenter has been finding plenty of excuses to hang around the Doctor's cabin since they set sail, and Mal knows that besotted little grin all too well from the last time that Master Frye was all besmitten. He's crossing he deck with a pistol in his hand and an expression of pure, murderous fury on his face faster than you can say Anne Bonny, and when he slams the door open he fully expects to see – well. Not this. Not his fancy pants Harley Street surgeon with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt unbuttoned, pinning some random, skinny, wriggling floozie to his bunk, one hand over her mouth and an expression of pure hand-in-the-cookie-jar guilt on his face as he meets Mal's eyes. The girl seems to be all knees and elbows, and she's wearing bloomers and a bodice and that seems to be pretty much it. Her dark hair spills down over the pillow and across her face like sea-wrack. She looks thoroughly woebegone.

“Doctor?” says Mal, in an admirably even voice. “Seems to me that we've something to talk about.”

“It's not what it looks like,” says Tam, and the girl takes that opportunity to knee him in the bollocks and wriggle out from under him. The Doctor curls up in an agonised ball for a few moments, and even though Mal is fixing to throw the fella overboard to feed the fishes, he can't help wincing in sympathy.

“Cap'n'? is everything – oh!” Master Frye's cheerful voice cuts off very abruptly, and Mal feels a little moment of pity for another shattered illusion. Turns out the fine Doctor didn't have such nice manners after all.

“He brung a woman on board?” That's the Master Gunner, right on cue. “He did! He brung a woman on board and he weren't planning on sharing? Ow! What?”

“This is 'Serenity'. You're perhaps thinking back to other ships you've sailed on, Master Cobb.” Book's tone is mild, but there's no mistaking the threat in it. The Boatswain is the very soul of courtesy, and almost impossible to rile, but they've all seen him in the heat of battle, and nobody aboard is fool enough to cross him. “There will be no 'sharing' of any unwilling man or woman on board this vessel.”

“You all right there, missy?” Mal says, tentatively. She doesn't look particularly distraut, as it turns out. “Not that I much approve of stowaways, mind, but I'm hazarding a guess you didn't have all that much say in the matter.”

She looks straight at him, and he's a little taken aback by how poised she is. “They weren't too pretty to die, after all,” she says, in a cold, clear voice, her head cocked slightly to one side, as if she can see right through him. “It still ate them all up.” She wriggles her fingers and snaps her teeth. “You don't have much of a taste for calamari now, do you, Captain?” Mal takes a step back, his eyes widening. He can feel people crowding in behind him, knows Zoe's got his back. He takes a deep breath. The girl frowns. “And yet here you still are, sailing on the surface when you know what lies beneath. Why is that?”

“She's – what is this?” Mal demands, as Tam, still white in the face, steps closer to the girl.

“She's my sister,” he says, coldly. “I was trying to help her sleep. I hoped that she could sleep through the whole voyage. She isn't – she isn't very good with strangers.” He draws a breath. “Or, well. With people.”

Mal gives this statement due consideration, and while he does the damsel in distress performs a handstand. Which is rather an impressive feat, given the swaying motion of the vessel, but she doesn't seem to find it unduly difficult. “Your sister?” he says, looking at Tam incredulously.

“Yes,” says the Doctor, stepping in front of her and glaring. “My little sister. River.”

Mal sighs. “Looks like we're going to need to have another conversation, Doctor Tam.”

* * * 

“I am – very smart. Exceptionally so. Gifted, you might say. I could read and write Greek, Latin, Spanish and French as fluently as I could English before I was seven, and I went up to Oxford when I was fourteen. So when I tell you that my little sister makes me look like an idiot child, I want you to understand my full meaning.” Dr Tam pauses, and looks around at the members of the crew Mal has allowed to join them for this little conversation. “She is a genius. Now, I know that the common wisdom would decry such a statement – how can a woman be a genius – but it is the unvarnished truth. River has the kind of mind that comes along not once in a century. In languages, in mathematics, in astronomy, in physics, in duelling, even - in all the fields of learning she should never be allowed to enter. River is extraordinary. She has always been extraordinary.” Dr Tam swallows, and glances over at the young lady in question, who is sprawling in a hammock, winding a lock of dark hair idly around her finger tip. He looks away, and his face is tight and unhappy. “But, of course, a reputation such as that is little use on the marriage mart. My parents did not want a daughter with such perverse aspirations. They wanted to ensure that she was appropriately tutored in more feminine arts. So they hired a governess to help subdue her. To encourage her to concentrate upon music, and dancing, and embroidery. Painting dainty pictures. More seemly and ladylike pursuits.”

Master Frye snorts quite audibly, and rolls his eyes. Tam looks startled at this interruption. Mal waves him on. “I was overseas, you understand. I did not know how – grave – the situation had become. We continued to correspond, but over time I grew – concerned. Very concerned. It was her hand, unmistakably, and yet - she did not seem to be herself at all. My parents reassured me, told me she was growing into a fine and elegant young lady but – I found myself afraid.” He draws a deep breath, and runs a hand through his hair. He is not the same, neatly composed young gentleman who strode up the gangplank yesterday. Mal thinks he might be a little more inclined to like this version. Assuming he doesn't find himself inclined to throw the boy over the side of the ship.

“So what happened?” asks Book, gently.

Simon gives a small laugh, and looks around at them all. “I don't know how – you will not believe me, I think. Indeed, I don't see how anyone could possibly – but, still, I owe you the truth. Well, then. I returned home unannounced to our plantation at Carterhaugh, and my father flew into a rage. I could not understand his fury, or the guilt in his eyes, but then I saw my sister and – she was not River.” He shudders at the memory. “Oh, she _looked_ the part, to be sure, but still – it was not merely because the passage of years had given her added stature and womanliness – no. Truly, there was something uncanny about the person I saw. Something – not quite human.”

“Well, ain't that reassuring?”

“Shut up, Jayne,” says Zoe, quietly.

Tam swallows. “This next part – well. I'll just tell it, and you can believe me or not. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't lived it myself. You see, in my absence my father's business had flourished. Oh, we had never been poor, but I was astounded to see how great his consequence had grown, how grand the house was, how rich my mother's jewels. I didn't connect the two things – his wealth, and River's strangeness. Not at first. It was the governess – she whom I'd supposed the source of the problem – who gave me my first clue. Well. There's no point in beating around the bush, because it won't sound any more believable for being delayed – they had sold my sister. For a handsome profit. Sold her seven years earlier, a little while after I went to Oxford, in fact.”

“Sold her?” asks Book.

Tam shakes his head. “Yes, but – well.” He looks down. “To the fairies,” he says, and gives a helpless shrug. There is a moment of silence, and then Jayne laughs out loud.

“What is this horse dung, Cap'n? Why we even listening to him yammer on?”

“Hush your mouth, Jayne,” says Mal, watching the Doctor's face.

“I don't know why I'm even trying,” mutters Tam. “I sound like one of the patients at Bedlam. But, as God is my witness, it was true. My family – it turns out my family have a longstanding acquaintance with these creatures.” He shakes his head, as if he can't quite believe what he's saying. “They demand a tithe every seventh year, and my father knew of it. And he had a daughter he didn't have much use for, and thought she could be a bargaining chip. Seems the Lords and Ladies had a better grasp of what a treasure River is than her own father had, because they fell on the offer at once, and granted him seven years of good fortune in return for his only daughter. And they taught her all manner of things. Did – God only knows what they did, or where they took her. But she became stranger, and stranger, and more otherworldly by the day. The governess told me that at night River would go dancing in the moonlight, or chase after some darting bat, and my father always let her go. He knew she would be safe. And she was. If you can call this safe.” He shivers.

River has been rocking herself gently all this while in the hammock, and in the pause that follows she begins to sing. "And pleasant is the fairy land, But, an eerie tale to tell, Ay at the end of seven years,  
We pay a tiend to hell.”

“Nope, that's not creepifying,” says Jayne.

“I was back just barely in the nick of time. That very night, when the moon was at the full, the Lords and Ladies were coming to claim her. My father confessed the whole of it to me, and told me all the ways in which I was culpable. How I had benefited from his, his 'sound business acumen'. How I could never have continued so long with my studies overseas, without the profit that River's sacrifice had brought him.” Tam swallows. “They were coming for her at the full of the moon, and this time they would carry her off to Hell, and the debt would be repaid. She was only a daughter, after all, and not biddable or beautiful enough to catch a rich man's eye. This was the best use she could make of her life, he said.”

“That's quite the display of paternal instincts,” says Mal, and Tam gives a bitter little laugh.

“Isn't it? My father, the humanitarian. Well, that night we were all to attend a feast at the Governor's house. All but River. I went along with them, played the dutiful son, but as the evening progressed I waited for my chance, and then I made good my escape. I was back at Carterhaugh before the sun had set, and I found River in her room, singing to herself, and brushing out her hair.” He swallows. “I bade her stay there, and not leave her room on any account, and I locked and bolted the door. I thought nothing could get past me.” He shakes his head. “I had no idea what I was dealing with.”

“What came?” asks Jayne, fascinated in spite of himself.

“Oh, nothing came. Nothing needed to come. She stepped out of the window and walked barefoot upon a beam of moonlight like it was a bridge of mother-of-pearl.”

“That sounds real pretty,” says Master Frye, wide-eyed and wistful.

“It was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen. My heart was in my mouth when I saw her there, walking on – on _nothing_, like some creature from a nursery tale. She looked like she was already one of them. I ran out of the house and I followed her, shouting her name, pleading with her – but she never looked down. I followed her through the forest, and at last she alighted in a clearing, with a pool of water and strange carvings the like of which I'd never seen before. And – and _they_ were there.” His eyes go wide, and for a long moment the Doctor just stares, clearly lost in a memory.

“They?” prompts the Boatswain, and Tam blinks.

“The Lords and Ladies of Fairy. They were – they – there are no words for what they were. And they were calling to River, beckoning her as a man might summon his hound.” Tam's eyes narrow. “But I seized hold of her, wrapped my arms tight around her waist, and I _would_ not let her go, come what may. Not if it meant they took me with her into Hell. I had deserted her once already. I would not do it again.”

“Aaaw, bless your heart!” exclaims Master Frye, dabbing at his eyes. “And what happened next?”

“She turned into a tiger, and tried to rip my throat out,” says Tam, with a rueful little smile. Master Frye gasps. “And then into a serpent, and then a huge dog, and then some kind of lizard – an alligator, I think. And then a lion, and a cloud of wasps, and a different kind of serpent. It was – it was quite the most astonishing, terrible, impossible experience. It went against everything I knew about the world. But it was happening, and so I had to accept it. And I held on, through every transformation, until at last she became a burning coal that sizzled in my hands. And then I dropped her into the pool that shone bright as silver in the moonlight, and she was my sister once again, and free.”

He turns to look again at River, and Master Frye bursts into a spontaneous round of applause. “Oh, well done! Didn't he do well, Cap'n? Oh, he _saved_ her!”

“So he says,” agrees Mal, although he's inclined to believe the story, impossible thought it sounds. He's seen a number of impossible things since sailing these waters, and this would not be the strangest of them. And – she knew about the kraken. There's something uncanny about her, and no mistake. “So then what, Doctor Tam?”

“The Lady...” he swallows. “One of the Ladies came to us, and I thought she was going to take River then and there. But instead she gave me the compass. Said that I'd earned it, and that they would be taking someone else for the tithe.” He bites his lip. “I think – I'm fairly sure she meant my father, but I didn't stay to find out. I packed as quickly as I could, and I took all the gold and coin and plate I could find.” He sticks his chin out. “It's River's. She earned it, not my father. And then we came here. Because River – River still is not well. And my heart's desire is to find someone who can bring her back to what she was – or as close as may be. Someone who can help me fix her. And I believe that there is someone out here who can do it – I've heard stories, when I was younger, but I never gave them credit. A witch, living in the swamps somewhere – Tia Dalma, I think her name is?”

Mal shudders. “That's – that's not a wise name to speak out loud, when you're at sea,” he says, with a wince. The Doctor blinks.

“Well – I think she can help me. And so that's my story, in full. This is my sister, and she is – not well. Not quite right. And where we're going – well, we're going to find her a cure.”

Mal studies the young Doctor for a long moment in silence. “So would I be correct in thinking that all your fine words about “half now, half afterwards” were just so much faradiddle to talk me into setting sail with you and your suspiciously large trunk?”

Tam hangs his head. “Well – well, yes, in fact. Yes. But it's still a very respectable sum, and all of it's yours, if you'll just take us where the compass leads.”

“And all of it would still be mine if I just tossed you both overboard right now,” counters Mal.

“Cap'n! He's just joshing with you, Doctor! He wouldn't do something so downright mean and ornery. Would you, Cap'n?”

“Master Frye, your opinion of my generosity of spirit is flattering, but I'm afraid I don't merit such a high estimation. I'd toss him to the sharks in an instant if I thought he posed a threat to my ship or her crew.”

“Oh,” says Master Frye. “But – he don't! Do you, Doctor?”

Tam looks over at River, and then back at Mal. “It isn't my intention to bring any trouble down on your head, Captain,” he says, uncertainly.

“Ah, but there's a gap between intention and results, isn't there, my friend?” Mal fixes his gaze upon the young Doctor, as if he hopes to somehow plumb the depths of his soul. “You want to take us into deep waters, unknown waters, and you want to take us to tangle with Tia Dalma. That, Dr Tam, is trouble with a capital T.”

“Oh,” says the Doctor, looking suddenly very young. “I – I see. I hadn't really thought of that.”

“Indeed.” Mal shakes his head. “Jayne, throw him overboard.”

“Captain!”

“Cap'n', don't joke like that!”

“Cap'n, I'm sure you didn't mean...”

“Now, just a minute, can we talk about this before we start murdering people for no good reason?”

_”No!”_ yells Mal, over the clamour of voices in the little cabin. “This is _not_ a democracy!”

“Actually, Cap'n, it kind of is,” points out Master Frye, sounding apologetic but quite firm. “We voted for you, same as we voted for Zoe here. Democratic-like.”

“Well, yes, that's true, but – look, Zoe agrees with me, don't you?”

“Not sure that I do, Cap'n,” says Zoe, and the Sailing Master gives her hand a squeeze.

“Seems to me we could use a Ship's Doctor, and if little River here is as clever as he says, she might be useful to have aboard. You _are_ looking for a new First Mate.”

“Oh, don't even – what is this, a rebellion? A mutiny? Are you mutinying on me, Master Frye?”

“No, Cap'n. 'Course not. I'm just refusing to do what you say.”

“Mister Book?”

The Boatswain rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I think he seems like a brave, if somewhat foolhardy, young man. And he certainly has skills that would be most useful on board 'Serenity'. I think we should take a vote on it.”

“Jayne?”

“Oh, I'm with you, Cap'n. Let's throw him to the sharks. Seems a pity to waste the girl, though.”

“...somehow that was less reassuring than it might have been, Jayne. I find myself suddenly not wanting to be on my own side.” Mal draws a breath, and looks at the members of his crew arrayed in the cabin. “We could open this up to the Able Seamen, and take a vote, or I could just agree that you're all a bunch of feckless, romantic idiots with the self-preservation instincts of a day-old chick.” He sighs, and turns to Dr Tam. “Welcome aboard, Doctor. Miss Tam. Since it seems you don't have the currency you promised me when we set off on this voyage, perhaps we can agree that you can make the rest of your payment in work?”

Tam eyes Jayne with suspicion. “River is not – she is a respectable young woman,” he says.

“Am not,” says River, from her position in the hammock. She's still clad in just her bloomers and one of Simon's shirts.

“See?” says Jayne, hopefully, and Zoe slaps him without looking up.

“Well, leaving aside the question of respectability – which I've come to see is a highly over-rated quality – does she not have some skills? You stood here telling us she was the cleverest, shiniest little jewel of girlhood ever to walk the face of the earth, with her sums and her languages and her duelling. Can she swab a deck?”

River flips herself over and out of the hammock with one startlingly graceful move, and stands in the middle of the room, smiling a very disconcerting little smile. “I can outfight every man and woman aboard this vessel, and I can navigate without need of a map or a compass, so long as I can see the sky,” she says, her voice clear and precise. “I know what lurks beneath the surface of the ocean, and what lies behind men's eyes, and I can scramble up to the crow's nest faster than any rigger on board. I can run, and dance, and swim, and I know all the Prime Numbers, and the names of all the stars in the sky – their true names, not the made-up ones. I know dead languages and living languages and the languages of beasts and fish. Sometimes I can walk on air.” She cocks her head thoughtfully, and adds: “But I can't cook. Cooking is not one of my skills.”

“Well, sounds like you're still in a job, at any rate, Mister Book,” murmurs Zoe.

“Aw, c'mon, Cap'n. Can we keep 'em?” begs Master Frye.

“We're keeping them, Master Frye. I make no doubt we'll come to regret it in the fullness of time, but – looks like we're keeping 'em,” says Mal, shaking his head at his own folly.


End file.
